A  Stoc%fnan's 
Poems 


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Hugh  B.  Shafer 


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A  STOCKMAN'S 
POEMS 


BY 

HUGH   B.  SHAFER 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Hugh  B.  Shaf  er. 


SAN  ANTONIO   PRINTING   CO. 

MANUFACTURING  STATIONERS 
8AN  ANTONIO, TEXAS, 


INTRODUCTION. 


IN  presenting  this  little  volume,  I  deem  it  proper  to 
state  that  the  greater  part  of  my  life  has  been  spent 
in  the  stock  business,  and  that  while  so  engaged  I 
had  never  so  much  as  thought  of  writing  a  poem. 

My  first  effort  was  made  about  ten  years  ago,  and 
from  that  time  my  interest  in  poetry  has  increased  until 
I  feel  impelled,  although  with  that  hesitation  and  reluct- 
ance common  to  other  writers,  to  place  this  small  offer- 
ing before  the  public. 

While  I  have  written  quite  a  number  of  poems,  I  only 
propose  that  a  few  short  ones  may  find  place  in  this  first 
volume. 

With  the  hope  that  the  reader  may  be  pleased  with  a 
perusal  of  them,  I  remain, 

Yours  truly, 

HUGH  B.  SHAFER. 


994242 


N  D  EX. 


Pagb 

An  Angel's  Talk 6-6 

The  Little  Dime 7 

The  Big  Dollar 8 

A  Home 9 

Vaunted  Halls 10 

A  Poet  or  An  Owl 11 

The  Texas  Maid 12 

A  Prophesy 13 

A  Better  Range 14 

This  World  Not  Right 15 

My  Dream 16 

Joy 17 

A  Fairy  Tale 18 

The  Tyrant's  Song 19 

Thoughts  of  Early  Spring 20 

My  Observations 21 

I  Ought  to  be  Thankful 22 

Turn  Backward 23 

Ambition 24-25 

The  Founders  of  Our  Country 26 

They  Tell  Their  Tale 27 

The  Philosophy  of  Life 28 

A  Winsome  Lass 29 

The  Snoring  Man 30 

The  Old  Granger 31 

Hope 32 

My  Native  Land 33 

This  World  is  Wrong 34 

My  Answer  to  An  Inquiry  Made  About  Cherokee 35 

A  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  Lou  Owens ;  My  Old  Time 

Friend 36 

The  Way  of  the  World 37-38 

This  World 39 

Don't  Be  Vain 40 

The  Boers 41 

Gonzales 42 

Summer  and  Winter 43 

Man  Wants  But  Little 44 

The  Fool  Sayeth  There  is  No  God 45-46 

Ignorance 47-48 

A  Thought - 49-50 

Tunes  I  Like  and  Tunes  I  Dislike 51 

The  Good  Old  Way 52 

Our  Boyhood  Days 53 

Each  One  a  Fitness  for  Something 54-56 

By-Gone  Days  in  Texas 57-58 

Written  After  Visiting  the  Alamo 59 

State  Capitol 60 

A  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  Dr.  P.  C.  Woods 61 

Hunter 62 


A  Stoekman's  Poems. 


^n  <^ttgBl'a  Talk; 


Two  angel  boys  long  years  ago, 
Along  life's  stream,  its  happy  flow, 
And  each  had  smiles  upon  his  face. 
And  dimples,  too,  that  all  could  trace. 

But  one  from  life  was  snatched  away, 
The  other  left  to  still  be  gay. 
Well,  time  rolled  on  just  forty  years, 
And  left  the  living  full  of  tears. 

His  hair  was  white  just  like  the  snow. 
And  wrinkles  came  and  would  not  go. 
And  age  has  settled  on  his  face, 
And  all  could  look  and  furrows  trace. 

In  midnight  hours  while  nations  sleep, 
This  gray-haired  man  had  wondrous  peep. 
He  saw  in  dreams  his  friend  again 
And  he  yet  youthful  still  remained. 

Well,  how  is  this  my  long  lost  friend. 
That  you  so  youthful  still  remain. 
And  I  have  furrows  on  my  face 
That  all  mankind  can  clearly  trace. 

The  sins  of  earth  have  brought  you  down 
And  not  the  years  that  have  passed  round— 
I  can  see  crime  in  every  place 
And  marks  of  it  on  every  face. 

Your  government  old  paths  forsake. 
By  dint  of  war  now  land  will  take. 
And  it  now  robs  the  squalid  poor 
Across  the  seas  on  every  shore. 


A  Stockman'* s  Poems. 

Our  government  was  kind  and  gcxxi 
And  honest,  too,  was  understood, 
And  freedom  reigned  in  every  heart, 
But  now,  alas!  all  good  departs. 

The  tyrant's  rule,  the  selfish  clan, 
They  rob  the  poor  of  every  land. 
This  claims  to  be  a  Christian  land. 
And  governed  now  by  God's  command. 

But  Devils  rule  in  every  place 
And  all  their  works  do  them  disgrace. 
Their  love  of  wealth  can  plain  be  seen. 
They  rob  the  poor,  the  lank,  the  lean. 

An  empire  now  we  have  in  state, 
The  few  now  rule  I  must  relate, 
The  ballot-box  is  now  a  sham. 
This  land  is  ruled,  and  by  a  clan. 

We  angels  see  these  changes  here 
Upon  this  land  we  loved  so  dear, 
But  Satan  now  has  full  control 
And  only  has  to  call  the  roll. 

Each  man  now  answers  to  his  name. 
And  no  one  has  an  honest  claim ; 
Each  one  agrees  that  he  will  steal. 
His  conscience  seared,  no  sin  can  feel. 

Now,  this  to  you  may  seem  all  wrong. 
For  me  to  blame  this  wondrous  throng, 
But  truth  is  truth,  and  angels  know 
When  men  do  wrong  where  e'er  we  we  go. 


San  Antonio,  Texas,  April  14, 1900. 


A  Stockman's  Poems. 

Ths  tittle  fimc. 


In  quiet  nook,  I  set  me  down 
To  write  a  little  line, 

Would  like  to  say  a  word  or  two 
About  the  precious  dime. 

If  I  had  coffers  filled  today 
That  I  could  call  my  own, 

I  then  could  feel  just  like  a  king, 
I  would  not  need  a  crown. 

The  dime  has  beauty  in  its  face 
And  all  our  race  can  please, 

Its  jingle,  too,  is  awful  sweet. 
It  sails  around  with  ease. 

No  king  will  turn  this  creature  off. 
Each  one  will  give  a  home. 

In  every  clime  upon  this  earth 
It  has  a  welcome  dome. 

Creates  a  smile,  on  careworn  face 
It  dries  the  widow's  tear. 

Its  jingle  fills  the  miser's  heart. 
Nothing  on  earth  more  dear. 

The  parson,  too,  will  not  reject 
This  lucre  in  its  place; 

He  fancies,  too,  the  little  dime. 
Its  smiling,  shining  face. 

It  has  a  charm,  my  friends  for  all. 
We  would  not  tell  a  lie. 

For  all  invite  the  dime  to  call 
When  it  is  passing  by. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  March  12. 1900. 


A  Stockman^ s  Foems, 


The  Dollar,  friends,  I  can't  forget. 
For  it  is  better  grown, 

We  like  its  jingle  better  still. 
It  has  a  better  tone. 

It  moves  this  world,  gives  quicker  pace, 
It  starts  the  torpid  blood, 

It  makes  the  angels  of  this  earth. 
It  buys  the  cloak  and  hood. 

It  makes  the  lame  sometimes  to  walk, 
It  pays  the  doctor's  bill, 

It  buys  the  soldier's  uniform 
And  pays  the  man  to  drill. 

It  moves  the  fiddler's  arm  to  play 
And  pays  some  folks  to  dance. 

It  fills  the  miser's  heart  with  joy 
And  helps  the  dude  to  prance. 

It  pays  the  parson  now  to  preach. 
For  they  don't  like  to  work 

They  go  to  school  and  learn  to  talk, 
The  dollar  is  no  joke. 

And  every  man,  both  rich  and  poor. 

They  cultivate  a  claim. 
They  have  a  friendship  for  the  cash 

And  ask  it  to  maintain. 

Let  him  who  hates  the  shining  ore 
Condemn  my  feeble  verse, 

Let  him  correct  the  falsehood  here 
And  make  this  writing  terse. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  March  12, 1900. 


A  Stockman^ s  Poems. 


A  home  is  not  a  castle  fair, 

With  dome  that  stands,  up  in  mid-air, 

And  not  a  lawn,  a  verdant  green. 

With  sparkling  founts,  with  brilliant  sheen. 

It's  not  the  texture  of  the  wall. 
Or  workmanship,  or  shape  at  all. 
And  not  the  flowers  that  bloom  so  fair, 
And  give  their  odor  to  the  air. 

It's  not  of  music's  sweetest  tone. 
That  you  can  hear,  when  all  alone; 
Nor  yet  a  voice  with  accents  sweet. 
That  charm  each  one  that  she  may  greet. 

Then  what  is  home?  I  ask  the  sage. 
That  I  may  place  it  on  this  page, 
That  man  no  longer  home  confound 
With  things  he  finds  upon  the  ground. 

Your  home  is  where  your  hearts  commune. 
With  kindest  thought,  with  you  in  tune. 
Your  home  is  where  you  lie  and  rest. 
And  not  by  want  or  famine  pressed. 

Your  home  is  your  own  dwelling  place. 
Where  you  can  rest  from  worldly  chase; 
Where  you  can  have  your  easy  gown. 
And  not  by  dress  or  fashion  bound. 

A  home  is  where  a  woman  dwells, 
Who  can  produce  those  joyous  spells ; 
A  home  is  where  our  love  remains. 
And  soars  above  all  selfish  claims. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  July  28. 


10  A  Stockman^ s  Foems. 


I  sat  me  down  in  vaunted  halls 
With  grandeur  all  around, 

The  brilliant  lights  were  shining  there 
And  beauty  did  abound. 

I  saw  the  maids — the  upper-tens, 
With  dresses  gored  and  frilled. 

I  saw  the  feathers  on  their  hats, 
But  never  saw  them  still. 

They  seemed  to  flutter  in  the  breeze 

Just  like  the  living  bird, 
But  if  they  gave  the  old  time  chirp. 

Can't  say,  upon  my  word. 

The  gents  were  standing  all  around 

Just  like  a  lot  of  beasts. 
The  girls  were  gabbling  all  the  time 

Just  like  a  flock  of  geese. 

And  smiles  I  saw,  and  dimples,  too, 
And  bright  and  sparkling  eyes, 

And  pretty  teeth  and  maiden  tints 
And  grace  as  they  passed  by. 

But  why  I  paint  this  picture,  friends. 

In  age's  sure  decline, 
And  why  I  fancy  still  these  scenes 

That  are  upon  my  mind? 

Are  questions  I  can't  ferret  out 

Unless  I  am  a  fool. 
Or  guided  by  some  foolish  imp, 

Or  for  Old  Nick  a  tool. 


A  Stockman^ s  Poems.  11 


While  night  broods  o'er  a  country  far 
The  owls  and  bats  get  up  a  jar 
While  men  are  sleeping  on  their  cots 
The  poet  writes,  and  Oh,  why  not  ? 

While  owls  keep  up  discordant  notes 
The  poet  sits  and  writes  and  jokes; 
The  owl  is  not  a  bird  or  cat. 
Betwixt,  between  and  all  of  that. 

The  poet,  neither  man  nor  brat, 
But  sits  and  writes  and  all  of  that ; 
Well,  both  are  fools  to  lose  their  sleep. 
And  both  these  fools  at  daylight  peep. 

And  both  will  sleep  in  brightest  day, 
And  both  denied  a  cheerful  ray. 
And  neither  fancied  by  his  clan. 
But  poet  has  the  better  scan. 

If  man  could  change  his  happy  lot. 
Would  he  be  poet  here  or  not? 
Or  be  the  owl  in  woods  to  roam, 
In  darkest  night  have  saddest  tone? 

If  owl,  no  lack  for  raiment,  then. 
With  somber  suit  the  winter  stem. 
Fare  better  than  the  most  of  men. 
And  not  for  theft  be  put  in  pen. 

Then  be  the  owl,  no  poet  man, 
And  sit  and  sing  discordant  clang. 
The  poet  is  born  to  sadness  here. 
And  has  no  friends  to  drop  a  tear. 


12  A  Stockman^ s  Poems. 


While  sitting  here  beneath  this  shade, 
A  thought  runs  monstrous  high, 

We  think  about  the  Texas  Maid 
And  of  her  acts  so  shy. 


i^ui 


She  won't  do  courting  Uke  a  man 
And  pop  the  question  quick, 

But  does  maneuver  awful  well. 
And  does  some  things  so  slick. 

Her  eyes  are  changing  like  the  storm- 
Can  show  revenge  and  hate, 

And  hide  a  lot  of  wondrous  things 
Inside  her  little  pate. 


It  takes  a  man,  of  shrewdest  type, 

To  read  this  angel  well. 
For  she  can  feign  just  what  she  please 
When  she  has  mimic  spell. 

Some  think  she  has  a  charm  within 

To  lead  our  sex  astray; 
At  any  rate,  she  leads  us  oft. 

And  have  us  go.  her  way. 

Each  modest  youth  is  not  aware 

Of  all  her  wily  ways. 
In  innocence  is  charmed  by  her. 

Don't  understand  displays. 

But  we  old  married  convicts  know 

Imprisonment  for  life, 
And  we  submit  to  all  our  wrongs — 

We  give  up  manly  strife. 


A  Stockman'' s  Poems.  18 


The  brightest  days  of  our  fair  land 
Are  numbered  with  the  past, 

No  Solomon  is  needed  now 
To  blow  this  truthful  blast. 

Republics  live  in  honest  climes, 

And  not  by  force  of  arms. 
The  clank  of  war  and  prison  walls 

To  us  can  have  no  charms. 

A  fettered  land  across  the  seas 
To  us  will  give  no  strength, 

But  clog  will  prove  in  days  to  come 
Throughout  its  width  and  length. 

Dishonest  ballot  in  our  land 

Show  forth  a  sad  decay, 
When  future  storms  blow  o'er  our  land 

They  will  create  dismay. 

A  lack  of  faith  in  those  who  rule 

Is  now  a  common  thing. 
From  counties  now  up  to  our  states 

Are  ruled  by  meanest  rings. 

No  patriot  to  tramp  the  sod. 
No  help  from  man  or  God; 

This  land  can't  do  as  once  it  did, 
This  land  is  bound  to  plod. 

In  time  to  come,  when  storms  arise, 

I  may  be  in  my  tomb. 
But  men  who  read  this  little  verse 

Will  see  this  country's  doom. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  May  15,  J 900. 


14  A  Stockman's  Poems, 

^  Belter  Hangs. 


I  dreamed  one  night,  when  on  my  couch, 
The  wind  had  made  a  change; 

I  dreamed  I  found  another  land, 
A  pure  and  better  range. 

The  grass  was  growing  on  the  hills 
So  strong,  so  fresh,  so  green, 

That  had  I  been  a  painter  boy. 

Would  there  have  drawn  that  sheen. 

I  stood  on  banks  of  crystal  streams, 

I  saw  their  graceful  flow, 
I  heard  the  murmur  of  their  voice 

So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low. 

I  saw  the  birds  of  that  fair  land, 
Their  plumage,  grand  and  gay, 

I  saw  them  flit  upon  the  breeze. 
And  saw  their  grand  display. 

The  $sh  I  saw  in  mountain  brooks, 
In  crystal,  limpid  streams — 

I  saw  them  stand,  like  in  mid-air, 
In  morning's  early  gleam. 

And  then  I  thought  of  Texas  range, 
Its  tanks,  its  wells,  its  springs. 

And  thought  about  our  troubles  here 
That  life  is  sure  to  bring. 

Then  let  me  have  this  fairy  land, 

All  shining  in  the  air, 
For  he  who  has  a  sportive  mind 

Is  certain  to  get  there. 

At  Home,  December  7, 1899 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  15 

This  WdxxxU  i^0l  Hight. 


This  world  don't  wiggle  right  at  all, 

I  have  been  watching  close. 
The  rain  dont  come  at  the  right  time, 

And  hence  this  mud  and  slosh. 

We  have  some  days  that  are  too  hot. 

And  some  are  awful  cold; 
In  winter  time  the  flies  behave, 

In  summer  always  bold. 

When  you  would  have  a  quiet  sleep, 

Forget  your  many  cares, 
\  cackling  hen  comes  to  the  front 

With  tones  inclined  to  jar. 

In  gloomy  night,  when  you  would  rest. 

Forget  yourself  and  woes. 
Some  evil  thoughts  take  hold  of  you 

And  will  not  let  you  go. 

This  world  ain't  right,  I've  tried  it,  friends. 

This  world,  I  say,  won't  do. 
For  if  this  world  would  work  all  right 

Why  should  a  man  get  blue  ? 

Why  not  rejoice  from  morn  till  night. 

Why  not  sing  joyous  song? 
Why  not  this  world  give  us  good  grub; 

Don't  we  to  it  belong? 

This  world  might  furnish  tonics,  too. 

To  help  our  feeble  clay. 
When  dismal  clouds  are  coming  near, 

To  drive  those  clouds  away. 


16  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


fUg  '§xmm. 


While  on  my  couch,  in  stilly  nif4ht, 

I  dreamed  a  dream  of  life, 
I  saw  a  city,  all  complete. 

And  men  engaged  in  strife. 

Each  one  had  work,  of  his  own  kind. 

Had  lots  of  work  to  do; 
And  each  one  had  his  route  to  go, 

And  each  one  had  his  clue. 

I  saw  inscribed  on  city  hacks, 

A  baker  kind  and  true; 
And  saw  some  drivers  tumble  ice 

At  places  ice  was  due. 

The  horses  moved  in  hurried  gait 

Like  trotting  at  a  fair; 
The  men  who  walked  were  stepping  fast, 

All  trying  to  get  there. 

Is  life  so  short,  and  death  so  near, 
To  cause  this  monstrous  haste? 

Or  is  each  man  disposed  to  lead 
In  this  our  worldly  chase. 

I  then  waked  up  from  slumber's  land 

And  asked  in  quiet  tones, 
"Will  you  tell  me,  my  dearest  friend. 

Is  this  not  San  Antone?" 


San  Antonio,  Texas,  July  24, 1900. 


A  Stockman^ s  Poems.  17 


It's  not  in  castle  on  the  hill, 

Or  in  the  gaudy  hall, 
Nor  in  the  giddy  dance  we  find 

A  pleasure  there  for  all. 

It's  not  with  statesmen  wise  and  great 
With  laurels  on  the  brow, 

To  sit  and  sing  in  stilly  eve — 
A  statesman  don't  know  how. 

Its  not  with  wealth,  with  coffers  filled 
With  bright  and  shining  gold. 

Nor  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
Nor  all  we  can  behold. 

But  he  who  has  contented  mind 

And  gets  his  daily  bread, 
And  bends  the  knee  both  night  and  morn 

To  him  who  has  him  fed. 

All  joy  is  found  within  the  heart. 
The  place  where  pleasure  dwells, 

And  here  we  find  the  seat  of  joy. 
In  it  the  happy  spell. 

Then  ask  of  God  a  purer  heart. 
And  angels  there  to  dwell, 

For  they  create  a  joy  within, 
And  cause  the  happy  spell. 

No  dwelling  place  for  angel  host. 

No  temple  for  the  gods, 
Man  is  a  brute  and  has  no  joy. 

He  packs  a  worldly  hod, 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  May  30, 1900, 


18  A  Stockman'* s  Poems. 

^  FEtrg  TeIb. 


In  noonday  time  I  lay  me  down 

Beneath  a  quiet  shade — 
A  breeze  was  playing  with  the  leaves 

That  did  to  sleep  persuade. 

And  in  my  sleep  a  form  appeared — 

A  figure  lithe  and  fair, 
It  seemed  to  be  of  woman's  form — 

Had  long  and  silky  hair. 

Had  dimples  both  in  cheek  and  chin, 
Like  rose  buds  was  her  cheek. 

And  when  she  looked  and  smiled  at  me, 
I  saw  her  pearly  teeth. 

I  stood  and  gazed,  I  lacked  for  words, 
I  lost,  my  friends,  my  speech. 

I  did  not  know  just  what  to  do, 
When  out  her  hand  she  reached. 

She  said,  "This  is  a  fairy  land 

And  I  the  fairy  queen — 
How  did  you  cross  the  fairy  line, 

How  reach  this  land,  I  mean?" 

About  this  time  the  lightning  flashed, 

I  felt  the  thunders  jar. 
When  I  waked  up  and  looked  around. 

And  found  I  was  not  there. 

I  found  myself  in  old  St.  Marks 

Upon  that  rocky  hill, 
Oh,  friends,  come  shed  a  tear  with  me, 

For  I  am  with  you  stilk 

At  Home,  November  14. 1899, 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  19 

Th^  Tgrant'g  S0ng* 


While  wealth  in  splendor  rides  supreme 
And  sports  with  flowers  upon  the  green, 
The  poor  are  seen  to  walk  the  road 
And  would  their  burdens  now  unload. 

But  tyrants  say  yet  trudge  along, 
For  you  are  of  that  abject  throng; 
For  you  there  is  no  better  place. 
To  toil  for  you  is  no  disgrace. 

Why  not  content,  with  wages  set, 
And  work  and  toil,  keep  out  of  debt? 
Why  would  you  take  the  master's  place 
And  bring  about  a  foul  disgrace? 

Set  hours  to  work  and  time  to  play. 
Arrange  an  hour  for  grand  display; 
Why  ask  in  life  a  gentry  claim. 
Why  not  a  servant  still  remain? 

The  flowers  of  life  are  for  the  few 
And  not  for  peasants  such  as  you; 
Go  toil  then  and  be  content 
With  what  your  God  has  nobly  sent. 

The  great  can  live  in  castles  fair, 
And  breathe  in  life  a  balmy  air; 
But  slaves  were  made  to  bear  the  yoke, 
And  pull  the  thorns  that  sometimes  choke. 

Then  stay,  ye  servants,  in  your  place. 
And  not  the  lords  of  earth  disgrace; 
This  world  was  made  but  for  the  few, 
And  not  for  serfs,  such  men  as  you. 

[Written  and  composed  by  Hugh  B.  Shaf  er  for  the  upholding  of  union  labor 
in  answer  to  an  article  that  was  seen  in  the  Tribune  of  April  18.] 


20  A  Stockman^ s  Poems. 

Thaughls  nf  garig  Spring. 


While  sitting  in  a  shady  nook 

In  morning's  early  dawn, 
All  nature  there  was  on  the  move 

Both  in  the  woods  and  lawn. 

The   birds   were   singing   sweetest   song, 

The  cattle  full  of  play. 
The  dew  was  shining  on  the  grass — 

All  nature  seemed  so  gay. 

If  all  of  nature  leaps  with  joy 
What  must  we  say  of  man, 

When  he  the  lord  of  all  things  here, 
And  has  entire  command? 

Should  he  not  praise  like  nature  does 

The  Maker  of  all  things. 
And  serve  the  God  who  gave  him  birth, 

And  all  these  blessings  bring? 

Should  he  not  love  all  nature  here — 
Each  living,  creeping  thing; 

Should  he  not  have  a  watchful  eye. 
And  to  all  nature  cling? 

For  man  is  owner  of  this  earth — 

The  seas  are  all  his  own. 
And  all  he  lacks  of  being  lord, 

He  does  not  wear  a  crown. 

But  no  one  here  disputes  his  claim. 
He  guides  the  ship  of  state; 

But  man  will  do  some  dirty  work, 
In  truth  I  must  relate. 


A  Stockman's  Foems.  21 


While  calmly  sitting  in  my  chair 

I  look  upon  the  street, 
And,  friends,  I  take  in  everything 

My  eyes  may  chance  to  greet. 

The  venders  come,  with  fruits  and  milk. 

Each  one  a  little  bell, 
And  they  all  ring  upon  the  street 

And  stop  a  little  spell. 

The  ladies  also  walk  the  streets 
With  skirts,  I  think,  too  long; 

It  takes  one  hand  to  hold  them  up 
Just  where   they  should  belong. 

If  she  should  stumble  on  the  street. 

How  great  would  be  her  fall! 
Just  one  small  hand  to  give  relief 

Would  be  no  help  at  all. 

Suppose  her  nose  would  strike  the  stone 

And  thus  become  a  pug? 
Then  her  best  man'd  go  back  on  her — 

Her  nose  would  be  the  rub. 

It's  better  far,  cut  off  the  skirts— 
Not  let  them  touch  the  ground, 

For  brooms  were  made  to  sweep  the  street. 
Not  ladies'  costly  gowns. 

How  graceful,  then,  with  old-time  skirt 

The  use  of  two  good  hands. 
And  then  more  play  for  little  feet 

Be  more  at  their  command. 


22  A  Stoc/cman^s  Poems. 

i  Owghl  t0  Bb  Thankful. 


I  look  above,  the  sky  is  clear, 

No  cloud  above  my  head; 
I  breathe  the  air — the  air  is  pure, 

Then  what  have  I  to  dread? 

No  lightning's  flash  athwart  the  skies. 

No  thunder's  distant  roar, 
No  howling  winds  I  hear  aloft. 

No  thing  that  I  deplore. 

I  have  no  castle  on  the  hill 
With  towering,  shining  dome. 

And  yet  I  have  enough  to  eat. 
And  have  a  pleasant  home. 

I  have  some  friends,  God  bless  them,  too. 
Who  have  been  kind  to  me. 

And  when  this  world  was  full  of  clouds 
They  filled  my  heart  with  glee. 

I  have  a  wife  all  kind  and  true 
Who  helps  me  on  the  way. 

When  darkest  hours  are  o'er  my  head 
That  wife  then  casts  a  ray. 

I  have  a  God  with  small,  still  voice, 

I  hear  when  oft  I  pray. 
And  he  can  turn  December's  blast 

To  balmy,  smiling  May. 

With  God  and  wife  and  home  and  friends. 

Why  not  I  be  content. 
For  all  the  blessings  I  receive, 

This  God  has  kindly  sent. 

Cherokee,  Texas,  November  3, 1899. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  23 

''Turn  ^EtkmErd/' 


Turn  backward,  turn  backward,  ye  princes  of  state, 
Before  it  shall  be  for  a  nation  too  late; 
Go  back  to  the  doctrines  our  fathers  have  taught 
And  for  eight  long  years  so  valiantly  fought. 

Turn  backward,  turn  backward  to  freedom  of  state, 
Before  it  shall  be  for  a  nation  too  late. 
To  each  dear  sister,  who  is  of  this  band, 
Be  equal  in  all  things  that  are  of  this  land. 

Turn  backward,  turn  backward  from  bondage  again, 
For  what  care  we  for  the  slaves  we  may  claim ; 
Then  let  freedom  return,  a  land  of  the  free, 
The  nation  all  happy  and  all  full  of  glee. 

Turn  backward,  turn  backward  from  land  we  may  claim 
From  war  and  tumult,  by  battle  may  gain ; 
The  stars  and  the  stripes  not  float  o'er  the  soil 
That  we  may  gain  by  wars  and  turmoil. 

The  people,  the  people,  should  rule  our  fair  land, 
And  not  be  governed  by  clicks  or  by  clans, 
For  this  is  a  nation,  a  land  of  the  free. 
And  we  as  a  nation  all  brothers  should  be. 

Let  slavery  remain  a  thing  of  the  past, 
And  we  here  no  more  our  brother  hold  fast. 
But  let  the  oppressed  from  tyranny  come. 
And  they  find  in  our  land  a  welcome,  a  home. 

Then  God  will  be  with  us,  and  fill  us  with  glee. 
For  all  will  have  rights,  just  like  you  and  like  me. 
Our  flag  then  can  float  o'er  the  land  of  the  free, 
A  nation  of  freemen  this  world  then  can  see. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  August  8, 1900. 


24  A  Stockman'' s  Poems. 


If  life  was  all  a  constant  climb, 
O,  what  a  ladder  then  for  man; 
If  in  this  life  no  slips  or  slides, 
What  need  we  then  for  wisdom  guides  ? 

Why  should  we  ask  for  legal  lore, 
Or  doctor's  drug,  or  any  bore? 
An  upward  look,  a  wish  to  climb. 
Not  stop  to  ask  for  help  divine. 

But  when  and  where  would  human  stop  ? 
No  end  to  ladder  and  no  top; 
Heaven  would  be  too  near  the  ground 
For  many  men,  we  would  be  bound. 

To  perch  with  angels  would  not  do, 
Must  look  and  long  for  other  clue. 
Some  other  heaven  above  their  sky 
Too  high  for  angels  e'er  to  fly. 

When  in  that  land  no  topmost  round — 
No  one  content,  too  close  to  ground, 
Still  climbing  for  a  fairer  land, 
And  asking  God  for  his  command. 

Now,  friends,  suppose  a  round  should  break. 
And  man  no  wings,  what  course  would  take  ? 
When  human  has  his  slips  and  slides, 
A  downward  course  he  must  describe. 

If  earth  don't  catch  this  helpless  crew, 
Hell  is  the  station  next  that's  due. 
And  when  a  mortal  gets  this  fall. 
It  rids  him  of  his  human  gall. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  25 

This  ladder,  friends,  is  oft  described 
By  men  of  earth,  of  pomp  and  pride. 
Ambition  finds  a  wondrous  fall, 
And  rids  them  of  their  human  gall. 

The  rich,  the  great,  have  highest  perch, 
But,  O,  how  oft  left  in  the  lurch. 
And  kingdoms  fall  just  like  the  man, 
They,  too,  will  take  this  lofty  scan. 

When  nations  rise  above  mid-air. 
Their  ladders  then  can't  stand  a  jar; 
The  distance  then,  too  great  from  earth. 
Our  mother  land  that  gave  us  birth. 

Ambitions  cause  a  nation's  fall, 
A  downward  course,  and  for  us  all. 
O !  where  is  Rome,  her  proud  domain, 
A  remnant  left,  and  it  so  lame. 

The  organ-grinder  on  the  street 
Is  all  of  Rome  you  now  can  greet ; 
No  more  the  soldier,  bright  and  gay. 
In  rank  and  file  to  make  display. 

Her  laurels  swept  by  hand  divine. 
And  her  extinct  in  shortest  time. 
If  Rome  could  fall  and  not  rebound. 
How  might  it  be  by  this,  our  ground  ? 

Is  this  our  land,  upheld  by  man. 
Or  does  a  God  oft  take  a  scan? 
If  all  of  human,  I  despair. 
If  all  of  God,  he  has  my  prayer. 


San  Antonio,  Texas,  June  13, 1900. 


26  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


When  on  my  couch,  in  midnight  hours, 

Then  visions  come  and  go; 
And  statesmen  come  of  stalwart  size, 

Of  many  years  ago. 

A  gloom  has  settled  on  their  face; 

I  see  in  them  despond ; 
I  will  not  ask  the  cause  of  this 

For  fear  I  might  do  wrong. 

George  Washington,  and  Jefferson, 

Are  of  this  wondrous  clan ; 
And  many  other  statesmen  wise 

That  I  can  clearly  scan. 

Why  would  they  quit  their  resting  places, 

And  to  me  thus  appear? 
Is  not  this  land  their  place  of  rest, 

A  land  that  they  hold  dear? 

There  must  be  something  wrong  with  us 

That  they  can  clearly  see; 
Why  would  the  tears  run  down  their  cheeks, 

Why  have  they  now  no  glee? 

I  cannot  live  in  this  suspense. 
Will  ask  them  what  is  wrong; 

And  I  will  tell  the  world  their  tale 
And  sing  their  saddest  song. 

Their  tune  may  not  sound  well  to  us. 

May  seem  to  have  discord; 
For  angels'  songs  might  here  be  sung, 

That  devils  would  discord. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  September  11,  1900. 


A  Stockman^ s  Poems.  27 


Why  use  the  yoke  of  tyranny 
We  Hfted  from  your  necks? 

Why  would  you  vote  for  greedy  men 
You  ought  to  hold  in  check? 

Why  would  you  go  to  foreign  lands 
To  shed  a  brother's  blood 

When  you  could  be  a  friend  to  him — 
Might  do  to  him  some  good? 

And  why  depart  from  maxims  old? 

Have  they  not  stood  the  test? 
And  why  seek  out  another  road? 

Was  not  the  old  the  best? 

Return  my  children,  O  return, 
From  vice,  and  gold,  and  sin; 

And  be  a  people  once  again, 
And  not  let  "Nick"  come  in. 

Your  fathers  shed  their  blood  for  right. 
And  would  do  naght  for  wrong; 

They  gave  to  you  this  lovely  land, 
To  you  it  now  belongs. 

Then  let  no  tyrant  have  a  home 

Upon  your  sacred  soil; 
And  let  no  devil  fill  a  place 

That  would  bring  on  turmoil. 

But  let  the  peaceful  have  the  reins. 

And  guide  the  ship  of  state, 
Before  our  God  may  curse  this  land, 
,  And  prove  we  are  too  late. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  September  10, 1900. 


28  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


It's  not  our  years  that  make  us  old, 

And  not  our  toil  in  life, 
But  it  is  things  that  bother  us — 

It  is  our  war  and  strife. 

Each  picture  here  has  a  gloomy  side 
That  fills  our  hearts  with  woe, 

Each  picture  has  a  sunny  side 
We  never  should  let  go. 

He  who  lives  'mid  crag  and  cliff. 
Where  flowers  are  seen  to  bloom, 

He  need  not  fear  the  gloomy  side, 
For  there,  there  is  no  room. 

There  water  falls  from  stone  to  stone, 
It  sings  a  cheerful  song, 

Then  time  gets  on  its  swiftest  wing. 
Our  hours  are  then  not  long. 

Then  what  is  age,  my  old-time  friend. 
What  of  our  days  and  years 

If  we  have  joy  from  sun  to  sun. 
We  have  no  time  for  tears. 

The  birds  will  not  forget  to  sing 
Amid  your  shady  nooks, 

And  muses  may  be  lurking  there 
Beside  your  little  brooks. 

And  they  may  ask  of  you  a  song 
To  sing  of  Willbern's  Glen, 

Its  waters  now  are  growing  old. 
But  yet  a  music  lend. 

314  Eighth  Street,  San  Antonio,  Texas. 


A  Stockman^ s  Poems.  29 


A  winsome  lass  goes  by  my  house 
With  dark  and  glossy  curls ; 

And  when  she  smiles,  and  looks  at  me, 
Her  teeth  appear  like  pearls. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  rubies  cast 

Upon  some  foreign  shore ; 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  midnight  hour, 

The  kind  that  I  adore. 

Her  lithsome  form,  must  I  discuss — 

Can  fairies  be  described? 
Would  call  her  of  the  angel  kind, 

If  angels  here  abide. 

And  when  she  walks  she  seems  to  glide 

Like  visions  fair  in  form ; 
Her  smile  it  is,  of  innocence — 

This  lass  would  do  no  harm. 

But  why  allowed  to  live  on  earth 

And  learn  of  sorrow  here. 
And  learn  to  love  some  wayward  man, 

And  shed  the  bitter  tear? 

Why  not  in  darkest  midnight  hour 
The  angels  take  her  home, 

And  plant  her  in  a  better  soil — 
A  brighter  land  to  bloom? 

Why  stand  the  angels  idly  by, 

If  death  is  in  the  land? 
Why  don't  they  take  this  lovely  girl 

To  Heaven,  that  happy  stand? 

San  Antonio,  Texas  .September  27,  1900. 


30  A  Stockman\s  Poems. 


Of  all  the  pests  in  this  broad  land 

The  decent  man  deplores 
Is  to  be  forced  in  some  hotel 

To  sleep  with  the  man  that  snores. 

The  snorer  falls  upon  his  back, 

Forgets  his  grief  and  woes. 
And  soon  you  hear  his  wondrous  snore — 

He  seems  to  say  ''Here  goes." 

If  you  could  lose  your  hearing  then — 
Not  hear  the  thunder's  roar, 

At  morn  you  would  be  more  refreshed. 
Not  count  him  such  a  bore. 

But,  O!  that  sound,  my  dearest  friend, 
What  struggle  and  discord — 

Enough  to  make  a  nervous  man 
To  wish  him  under  sod. 

There  is  no  law  to  kill  them  off 
Or  "pen"  them  here  for  life, 

And  yet  they  murder  nervous  men. 
And  cause  unlawful  strife. 

If  Nick  would  take  this  snoring  crew 

And  build  for  them  a  hell, 
We  all  might  live  like  brothers  then, 

A  happy  place  to  dwell. 

No  one  could  hear  the  other  snore, 

For  all  would  be  asleep, 
And  all  that  Nick  would  have  to  do 

To  take  a  little  peep. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  31 


When  tyrants  planned  to  rob  the  poor, 
A  thing  that  honest  men  deplore, 
Old  parties  stood  and  saw  their  plans. 
But  no  one  gave  a  helping  hand. 

At  length  the  granger,  old  and  true. 
His  weapon  of  defense  he  drew; 
He  said  all  wealth  comes  from  the  ground, 
And  asked  the  farmer  set  this  down. 

All  trusts  are  work  of  evil  hands. 
And  helped  by  parties  in  command, 
These  men  to  us  will  give  no  help, 
They  also  work  alone  for  pelf. 

Then  we  must  organize  alone, 

Protect  our  all,  our  happy  homes, 

And  let  old  parties  go  to  Hell, 

Or  some  warm  place  where  they  should  dwell. 

And  we  must  build  a  platform  strong 
To  save  ourselves  from  coming  harm. 
Our  planks  must  be  both  sound  and  true, 
And  kept  secure  from  poisonous  dew. 

Our  hands  be  clean  from  office  spoils. 
And  we  must  shun  all  these  turmoils: 
But  best  laid  schemes  of  mice  and  men. 
We  cannot  always  here  defend. 

At  night  when  all  was  calm  and  still, 
We  heard  some  grinding  on  our  mill  ; 
Our  platform  plank  these  thieves  now  claim. 
But  we  are  grangers,  such  remain. 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  October  11, 1900. 


32  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


Hnyit. 


In  idle  hours,  while  here  alone 

In  my  old  rocking  chair, 
I  think  about  this  .funny  world 

With  all  its  storm  and  care. 

No  one  content  with  his  own  lot; 

Each  has  a  higher  claim ; 
From  kings  now  sitting  on  the  throne 

Down  to  the  weak  and  lame. 

Tomorrow's  sun  will  tell  the  tale, 

Tomorrow's  dew  will  fall, 
Then  joy  will  come  to  every  man, 

And  blessings  for  us  all. 

And  none  without  the  faintest  hope 

Of  joys  that  are  to  come, 
And  but  for  this,  this  world  a  blank, 

This  earth  a  gloomy  home. 

Is  hope  the  only  ray  of  life — 

The  only  cheer  for  man? 
Is  hope  the  brightest  star  above — 

For  mortals  here  to  scan? 

Then  praise  the  star  that  cheers  our  path. 
That  lights  our  gloomy  way; 

And  pray  that  hope  shine  brighter  still 
Unto  that  perfect  day. 

This   star  will   shine   at   Heaven's   gate 

And  cast  a  gladsome  ray; 
And  light  our  pathway  in  the  past. 

And  then  shall  fade  away. 

San  Antonio.  Texas,  October  13,  1900. 


A  StocTcman^s  Poems.  33 


TOg  ^^mt  tanil. 


I  long  to  go  where  mountains  stand, 

With  peaks  amid  the  skies; 
I  long  to  live  where  limpid  streams 

Run  down  the  mountain  sides. 

I  long  to  see  the  azure  blue 
Along  the  mountain  strand, 

And  see  the  landscape  once  again 
Of  my  dear  native  land. 

Would  see  the  birds  of  my  own  clime, 
And  hear  their  songs  once  more. 

Would  see  again  my  native  land — 
The  land  that  I  adore. 

Would  live  a  day  in  that  fair  land, 

Would  be  a  boy  again. 
And  have  a  heart  as  pure  as  then. 

And  such  I  would  remain. 

I  would  not  ask  for  manhood's  prime, 
For  cares  would  mar  my  life. 

My  hair  turn  gray  and  wrinkles  come 
Amid  this  war  and  strife. 

But  I  would  live  the  cheerful  boy, 

And  smile  on  all  around. 
And  I  would  spend  my  fleeting  hours 

On  my  dear,  native  ground. 


San  Antonio,  Texas,  Januarys,  190i, 


3^4  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


While  winds   are  shifting  in  our  land, 
I  take  a  grand  survey; 
Will  any  gale  pass  by  this  way 
To  make  the  poor  feel  gay. 

When  will  the  laws  deal  equal  here, 
Treat  rich  just  like  the  poor? 
When  will  we  love  the  poor  in  heart, 
And  virtue  most  adore? 

When  will  we  cease  to  fawn  on  wealth 
And  worship  yellow  ore? 
When  will  we  count  all  pomp  and  pride 
As  but  an  earthly  bore? 

When  will  we  honor  men  the  most 
To  whom  it  is  most  due? 
When  will  we  scorn  all  men  on  earth 
We  know  to  not  be  true? 

For  in  the  end  the  scales  will  hang, 
A  feather  change  the  sides. 
And  as  they  turn  the  tale  be  told, 
The  turn  we  must  abide. 

No  legal  lore,  no  false  excuse. 
For  crimes  that  we  have  done; 
The  scales  will  work  exactly  right. 
And  show  where  we  belong. 

It  might  be  best  to  stop  and  think 
While  yet  upon  this  strand, 
For  on  the  other  side,  they  say. 
Gold  has  no  great  demand, 

San  Antonio,  Texas,  February  4, 1901, 


A  StockmarCs  Poems.  35 


It  is  a  place  amid  the  hills, 
With  sand  and  mud,  but  not  a  rill; 
The  water  runs  upon  the  streets 
And  makes  a  lake  or  water  sheet. 

The  ducks  and  geese  can  swim  around, 
And  have  a  chat  on  city  grounds; 
And  hogs  and  cows  always  in  town. 
It  seems  to  be  a  grazing  ground. 

The   people   differ   like   the   swine. 
Not  all  were  raised  in  Texas  clime; 
Some  are  large  and  big  and  fat, 
And  some  are  small — walk  like  a  cat. 

Not  all  are  workers  in  this  town. 
When  chairs  are  scarce,  sit  on  the  ground. 
These  men  have  pants  well  fortified, 
If  lands  are  steep  they  all  can  slide. 

No  bums  are  seen  in  Cherokee, 

No  one  can  have  a  genteel  spree; 

No  bar-room  here  to  give  us  cheer, 

No  place  to  keep  the  larger  beer. 

Cold  drinks  are  all  you  can  expect, 
For  local  option  is  their  text; 
When  colic  comes  and  gives  a  call, 
A  camphor  bottle — that  is  all. 

And  yet  this  town  is  of  the  best, 
They  all  feed  well  if  you  should  bust; 
No  one  can  hunger  in  this  land — 
In  this  they  do  the  Lord's  command. 


San  Antonio,  Texas,  April  2, 1901, 


36  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


In  early  days,  long,  long  ago, 

When  we  of  youth  had  joyous  flow, 

I  met  you,  Lew,  upon  this  strand. 
As  yet  have  found  no  better  man. 

Some  men  can  boast  of  church  and  state, 
And  grander  deeds,  perhaps,  relate, 

But  you  can  claim  to  be  a  friend, 
A  claim  too  high  for  most  of  men. 

In  every  place  I  found  you  true, 

Always  I  found  a  friend  in  you, 
In  storm  and  calm,  always  the  same, 

No  fault  in  you  that  I  could  blame. 

To  virtue.  Lew,  you  was  her  slave. 
And  to  protect  was  always  brave, 

In  every  storm,  and  every  blight 

Your  course  I  thought  was  ever  right. 

Well,  times  have  changed,  and  years  have  fled, 
And  some  have  said  that  you  were  dead ; 

Believe  them  not,  my  honest  friends. 
No  death  awaits  an  earthly  gem. 

You  are,  I  know,  on  other  side, 
Where  all  must  go  whatever  betide, 

But  death  on  you  can  have  no  claim. 
Death  only  claims  the  vile  and  lame. 

What  I  have  said  your  friends  can  tell. 
For  all  your  neighbors  loved  you  well. 

These  lines  I  write  are  nothing  new, 
Only  a  tribute,  just  and  true. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  37 


If  God  would  ask  the  angels  come 

And  take  up  their  abode, 
Would   they  be   neighbors  to  our  clan — 

Would  we  accept  their  code? 

Would  we  be  friendly  to  those  bands 

And  give  a  helping  hand, 
Or  would  we  wish  them  emigrate 

To  some  far  distant  land? 

Would  we  not  claim  the  world  too  small 

For  all  that  mighty  host? 
That  man  now  needs  each  acre  here. 

And  needs  each  tree  and  post? 

Would  we  not  ask  them  for  their  creeds, 

And   how   inclined   to   vote, 
And  if  they  wanted  office  here, 

And  would  they  kindly  tote? 

And  if  they  differed  from  our  clan. 

Not  quite  be  orthodox, 
Away  with  angels,  then,  my  friends, 

No  home  amid  these  rocks. 

But  what  if  Nick  would  here  apply 

For  a  substantial  home. 
Broad  acres  here  to  occupy, 

A  bright  and  shining  dome? 

This  world  is  large  enough  for  all. 

And  has  its  joys  to  loan, 
And  man  is  kind  to  all  his  friends, 

And  he  would  make  him  room. 


38  A  Stockman's  Poems. 

Then  what  a  neighbor  we  would  have, 

A  friend  both  bright  and  gay, 
A  smile  for  every  one  on  earth, 

For  every  one  a  ray. 

His  creed  would  suit  the  epicure 

And  those  who  care  for  wine; 
His  creed  would  suit  the  young  and  gay, 

His  plans  would  be  sublime. 

He  would  advise  the  people  all 

To  fix  and  go  to  church, 
And  caution  them  to  fix  up  well. 

And  not  be  left  in  lurch. 

He  might  advise  the  parson,  too, 

To  go  in  fashion's  way. 
For  all  who  dress  in  flunkey  garb. 

Will  surely  go  astray. 

He  might  be  in  the  music,  too, 

Not  fond  of  harsh  discord. 
He  might  advise  but  few  to  sing, 

But  sing  to  praise  the  Lord. 

And  he  might  talk  in  such  a  way 

As  not  to  bring  up  self. 
But  have  the  parson  on  the  watch 

To  gain  the  sordid  pelf. 

The  writer,  friends,  is  well  acquaint 

With  Nick  and  all  his  ways ; 
If  he  was  not,  how  tell  about 

The  Devil's  grand  displays? 


A  Stockman's  Foems.  39 

This  njaaxu. 


On  life's  grand  current  I  yet  flow, 
When  it  shall  end  I  do  not  know. 
When  storms  arise  and  waves  run  high, 
I  claim  a  Help  that  stands  close  by. 

A  God  can  calm  the  raging  seas 
And  watch  the  sparrows  on  the  trees. 
God  is,  I  know,  in  calm  and  storm. 
And  He  can  keep  me  from  all  harm. 

Then  let  this   river  onward  flow. 
And  I  in  current  quietly  go. 
I  will  not  check  this  old-time  stream. 
For  oft  it  has  a  joyous  gleam. 

But  soon  or  late  this  flow  must  end. 
And  no  more  current  here  for  men. 
W^ith  some  our  youthful  tide  has  gone 
And  some  can't  smile — they  feel  forlorn. 

Not  years  and  days  that  make  us  gray. 
But  age  comes  on  from  our  display. 
For   friction  brings   our  wrinkles  on — 
Small  shoes  will  bring  the  worst  of  corns. 

For  those  who  limp  can  always  tell 
From  whence  the  limp,  from  heaven  or  hell. 
And  man  alone  is  oft  to  blame. 
And  need  not  seek  another  name. 

Then  all  ye  wrinkled,  starving  crew, 
We  lay  life's  troubles  all  on  you. 
This  world  was  made  and  rigged  for  men. 
And  I  must  say  she  is  a  glen. 

San  Antonio,  Texas. 


40  A  Stockman'' s  Poems. 


Do  not  be  vain,  ye  feeble  ones, 

Of  this,  our  little  world; 
This  universe  is  grander  still. 

And  by  God's  pov^er  is  hurled. 

The  feeble  clouds  you  don't  control, 
You  cannot  check  a  storm; 

Be  quiet,  then,  my  little  man. 
And  do  not  be  alarmed. 

For  God  has  worked  this  universe 
For  years  before  you  came; 

Don't  have  one  fear  for  wind  or  storm, 
Jehovah  is  not  lame. 

If  you  will  do  your  duty  here. 
Just  work  the  livelong  day, 

God  will  send  what  you  need  here. 
Your  God  will  make  the  hay. 

Then  have  no  fears,  ye  little  ones, 

You  are  a  little  fry; 
It's  God  that  runs  this  universe. 

It's  God  that  stands  close  by. 

This  world  will  run  when  you  are  gone. 
Where  e'er  your  steps  may  be. 

If  covered  up  beneath  her  soil 
Or  hid  beneath  the  sea. 

Then  have  no  fears,  my  little  man, 
God  reigns  on  land  and  sea, 

He  fills  our  hand  with  choicest  fruits, 
He  fills  our  hearts  with  glee. 

January  17. 1901. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  41 

ThB  Otters. 


Is  there  no  justice  in  our  land, 

No  honor  here  of  late; 
No  sympathy  for  the  oppressed 

In  boasted  church  or  state? 

Are  we  to  look  across  the  main 

Upon  a  foreign  shore, 
And  see  the  tyrants  scourge  that  land, 

And  paint  with  blood  and  gore. 

And  see  the  mothers  delve  and  dig 

To  feed  the  hungry  child, 
While  English  nobles   drink  and   feast, 

And  cater  to  their  pride? 

Are  we  to  see  them  rob  the  Boers 

Of  their  dear  fatherland. 
And  not  allowed  to  say  one  word. 

Not  raise  a  valiant  hand? 

And  can  we  love  a  land  like  this. 

That  gives  no  helping  hand; 
That  looks  and  sees  their  neighbors  robbed 

And  makes  no  stern  demand? 

And  are  there  now  no  patriots. 

No  one  to  fight  for  right. 
Like  cowards  see  our  neighbors  robbed. 

And  we  almost  in  sight? 

Let  all  who  would  have  justice  done 

Go  join  a  valiant  band. 
And  then  select  a  leader  brave. 

And  give  to  him  command. 


42  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


Long  years  ago,  when  I,  a  boy, 

I  saw  your  lovely  town; 
When   I,   a  stranger   in   this   land, 

And  moving  'round  and  'round. 

But,  oh,  how  changed  are  all  things  now. 

The  old  hotel  is  gone, 
Anw  now  you  have  a  larger  town, 

And  yet  I  feel  forlorn. 

Where  are  the  men  that  I  met  here 

Just  forty  years  ago? 
Do  they  still  live  upon  the  sod. 

And  have  a  youthful  glow? 

Or  are  they  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Now  asleep  beneath  the  soil, 
And  do  they  sleep  a  peaceful  sleep, 

No  longer  have  turmoil? 

If  yet  alive  their  heads  are  gray. 

They  walk  with  feeble  gait. 
Or  it  may  be  no  hair  at  all 

Now  left  upon  the  pate. 

Well,  time  has  done  a  work  for  us. 

My  kind  old  Texas  friends; 
We  are  not  boys,  as  once  we  were. 

But  hope  now  better  men. 

A  few  more  years  will  close  us  out; 

We  leave  just  one  by  one, 
And  when  a  call  is  made  for  us. 

The  answer  will  be,  no,  none. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  4S 

Summer  and  Ittlinter* 


When  chill  November's  surly  blast 
Makes  field  and  forest  bare, 

I,  too,  would  lay  my  burdens  down. 
Would  rid  myself  of  care. 

Would  stand  awhile  a  leafless  tree. 
Forget  the  cares  of  life. 

Would  sleep  or  rest  through  winter's  blast- 
Would  have  no  care  or  strife. 

Forget  my  sorrows  of  the  past. 

Remember  them  no  more; 
Would  sleep  and  rest  the  winter  through. 

Let  chill  November  blow. 

When  joyous  May  comes  on  anon. 
With  balmy  winds  to  blow, 

I  then  be  like  the  forest  tree. 
Would  have  the  overflow. 

And  when  the  forest  paints  her  sheen 

In  colors  grand  and  gay, 
I,  too,  would  like  to  be  on  hand 

And  make  a  grand  display. 

I  am  a  child  of  Nature,  too. 

And  subject  to  her  rule. 
The  tree  and  I  both  stand  the  blast. 

Both  members  of  her  school. 

Both  fall  alike  upon  the  sward, 

Both  He  just  like  we  fall; 
Both  may  be  found  with  sweetest  bloom, 

Both  may  have  bitter  gall. 

At  Home,  December  6, 1902. 


44  A  Stockman^ s  Poems. 

mm  Wmis  ^wt  ttttls. 


Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long; 

Don't  ask  to  have  her  stature  great, 
Nor  ask  her  wondrous  strong. 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 
Don't  ask  for  size  or  might. 

But  asks  her  have  a  tiny  foot, 
And  asks  a  nimble  gait. 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Don't  ask  for  war  in  haste, 

But  asks  for  pretty  smiling  eyes 
And  dimples  in  her  face. 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Don't  ask  for  dress  and  pride, 

But  wants  a  partner  for  this  life 
To  with  him  here  abide. 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

He  cannot  live  alone, 
He  wants  a  little  wife  on  earth 

To  give  him  proper  tone. 

Man  cannot  live  a  hermit  here 
In  this  big  world  of  storm, 

He  needs  a  woman  in  his  house 
Always  on  hand  to  charm. 

A  little  wealth,  a  little  wife, 

A  little  while  to  stay. 
The  little  while  he  lives  on  earth, 

Let  little  man  be  gay. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  45 

Ths  Frtnl  SEgeth  THttt  is  isfn  (50ri. 


If  all  the  books  of  ancient  lore 
Were  placed  beneath  the  sod, 

There  yet  would  be  sufficient  proof 
To  show  there  is  a  God. 

The  sun  that  shines  upon  our  land, 
That  warms  old  mother  earth, 

Must  prove  to  every  living  man 
The  grandeur  of  his  birth. 

The  moon  that  lights  our  midnight  hour, 

That  casts  her  silver  ray, 
Must  prove  to  every  thinking  man 

She  makes  a  grand  display. 

The  stars  that  twinkle  o'er  our  head, 

That  give  a  lesser  light. 
Are  useful,  too,  in  their  own  way — 

A  blessing,  too,  at  night. 

The  dews  that  fall  upon  our  land 

'Mid  stillness  of  the  night, 
They  do  a  wondrous  good  on  earth, 

They  save  our  land  from  blight. 

If  sun,  moon,  stars  and  dew 

Be  not  the  works  of  God, 
Then  who  the  author  of  these  things? 

Who  here  upon  this  sod? 

The  universe,  my  friends,  is  here. 
And  was  not  made  by  chance, 

A  God  we  find  in  everything, 
And  always  in  advance. 


46  A  Stockman's  Poems. 

Then,  feeble  man,  creation  stands, 

A  picture  grand  and  great, 
If  you  can't  scan  this  picture  well, 

'Tis  failing  of  your  pate. 

If  you  can't  see  God's   footprints  here, 

His  track  upon  our  land. 
You  are  a  child  of  feeble  birth. 

You  are  not  quite  a  man. 

Well,  imbeciles  infest  our  land, 

And  they  come  here  to  stay, 
But  if  they  live  for  eighty  years, 

They  never  cast  a  ray. 

Creation  stands  above  their  heads, 

Wisdom  out  of  sight. 
He  was  not  made  to  be  a  sage, 

He  is  a  human  blight. 

The  fool,  you  know,  says  in  his  heart. 

On  earth  there  is  no  God, 
And  thus  he  talks  within  himself. 

And  thus  he  has  to  plod. 

The  wise  man  finds  in  Nature's  book 

A  source  of  wondrous  joy, 
And  when  he  has  a  leisure  hour. 

He  has  a  grand  employ. 

A  thousand  pictures  loom  bright 

In  Nature's  gaudy  field. 
And  every  picture  gives  a  joy, 

Each  one  a  blessing  yields. 


A  Stockman^ s  Pcems.  47 


*1  do  not  know  old  ignorance" 

Is  what  each  one  would  say, 
My  house  is  filled  with  better  guests 

Who  often  cast  a  ray. 

Now  old  man   Wise,  the  grand  old  sage. 

Is  one  of  my  best  friends, 
And  what  we  say  and  what  we   do 

To  none  we  make  amends. 

For  wisdom  has  no  faults  to  hide. 

He  will  not  lie  or  steal. 
He  is  no  beggar  here  on  earth. 

For  help  makes  no  appeal. 

Intelligence  is  always  here. 
He  boards  with  me  each  day. 

And  when  old  knowledge  takes  a  walk. 
Then  shows  to  me  the  way. 

But  knowledge  is  my  constant  friend, 

He  sleeps  with  me  at  night; 
In  midnight  hours  when  all  is  dark 

His  light  is  shining  bright. 

But  ignorance,  the  old  outcast 

Who  goes  from  door  to  door. 
He  cannot  live  beneath  my  roof. 

And  need  not  me  implore. 

He  may  find  lodgings  in  this  town. 

May  be  a  welcome  guest, 
But  he  can't  breathe  beneath  my  roof. 

And  need  not  make  request. 


48  A  Stockman^ s  Poems. 

O,  why  would  men  deny  old  friends, 

Companions  here  for  life, 
Who  stick  to  us  in  every  turn, 

And  closer  than  a  wife. 

O,  why  not  claim  a  friendship  dear 

From  early  childish  hours 
To  when  our  heads  are  turning  gray 

Beneath  these  earthly  bowers? 

For  ignorance  will  follow  us, 

And  will  not  let  us  go, 
And  he  will  be  our  constant  friend 

While  life  here  has  its  flow. 

And  when  our  sun  is  going  down, 

Its  rays  are  in  the  west, 
He  will  not  leave  us  even  then. 

We  need  not  make  request. 

And  when  our  eyes  are  dim  in  death. 

And  we  on  other  shore. 
Will  still  hold  on  with  stronger  grip 

Than  ever  did  before. 

This  land  will  all  be  new  to  us. 

Its  pastures  then  so  green. 
Still  waters,  too,  as  they  flow  on. 

Not  have  this  earthly  gleam. 

O,  would  the  angels  tell  us  all. 

Is  this  our  place  of  rest, 
Is  this  the  land  of  promise  here. 

And  shall  we  now  possess. 


San  Antonio,  Texas,  April  13. 1901. 


A  Stockman^s  Poems.  49 


What  joys  would  be  in  store  for  me, 

If  I  but  had  the  cash ; 
What  dainty  food  upon  my  board, 

How  rich  would  be  my  hash. 

Cold  turkey  cut  in  savory  bits, 
And  served  in  richest  cream; 

Rich  butter  stewed  with  this  good  dish, 
To  give  the  proper  gleam. 

Then  coffee  served  by  Frenchman's  hand, 

That  always  tells  its  tale; 
Will  bring  sweet  visions  from  afar, 

I  never  knew  it  fail. 

Hot  cakes  come  on  as  good  things  do 

Just  in  the  nick  of  time ; 
Rich  milk  we  take  with  cakes,  you  know. 

And  think  them  quite  sublime. 

And  who  would  stint  the  inner  man. 
With  coffers  filled  with  gold? 

And  who  refuse  to  serve  his  maw 
When  he  these  things  behold? 

But  this  not  all,  my  old  time  friends. 
All  things  should  be  in  tune, 

My  waistband  cut  the  proper  length. 
We  all  like  ample  room. 

With  stovepipe  hat.  Prince  Albert  coat, 

A  necktie  white  as  snow ; 
A  fluent  tongue  and  sprightly  wit. 

And  friends  where'er  I  go. 


50  A  Stockman'' s  Poems. 

This  world  would  wiggle  then  all  right, 

I  be  Professor  Jones; 
My  walk  and  gait  to  be  all  right, 

To  show  the  upper  tones. 

I  then  look  down  on  common  men 

As  of  the  common  herd ; 
The  imbeciles  look  up  to  me, 

My  servants  by  me  feared. 

I  be  on  earth  a  little  king, 

But  lack  the  golden  crown; 
I  not  look  up  to  any  man. 

But  always  looking  down. 

If  I  could  live  ten  thousand  years 

And  be  the  little  king; 
My  dying  day  would  be  far  off, 

Too  far  to  feel  the  sting. 

But  on  this  life  I  have  no  lease, 

Not  for  a  single  day; 
The  life  we  have  is  far  too  short 

To  make  a  grand  display. 

I  might  build  up  a  little  throne, 

Have  scepter  in  my  hand. 
And  death  might  come  a-stalking  in 

And  make  his  stern  command. 

If  death  would  deal  like  all  good  men, 

Would  stand  a  compromise, 
But  yellow  gold  and  good  things  here 

They  say  he  does  despise. 


A  Stockman^ s  Poems.  51 

Tun^a  ]  ykB  anil  Twtijg  I  ^tatrkc. 


Don't  play  your  old-time  tunes  for  me, 

They  always  give  me  pain ; 
Don't  sing  of  Dixie  one  time  more, 

I  now  don't  like  the  strain. 

I  don't  like  Yankee  Doodle  now, 
Or  Boys  that  Wear  the  Blue; 

Those  dear  old  tunes  all  make  me  sad, 
Then  why  these  tunes  renew. 

I  want  a  strain  called  Equal  Rights, 

But  not  God  Save  the  King; 
For  we  have  breathed  of  Freedom's  air. 

And  heard  the  poor  folks  sing. 

A  song  for  millions  don't  suit  me, 
With  vaults  of  shining  gold; 

And  men  in  rags  all  standing  'round, 
I  would  not  these  behold. 

I  like  to  hear  the  boy  at  plow, 
In  Springtime's  early  morn; 

And  like  to  see  the  country  maid. 
With  smiles  to  life  adorn. 

The  city  belle  I  don't  admire 

With  all  her  plumage  fair. 
The  birds  that  wore  that  plumage  once 

Sailed  out  in  Freedom's  air. 

Then  let  us  have  a  little  song, 

Let's  call  it  Bonnie  Doon ; 
And  let  the  band  leave  Dixie  out. 

For  it  I  have  no  room. 


52  ^  Stockman^ s  Poems. 

ThB  (50nri  ©III  fdag. 


Some  folks  are  wanting  something  new, 

And  looking  in  advance, 
But  I  do  love  the  good  old  way, 

Prefer  to  take  no  chance. 

If  I  could  live  life  o'er  again — 

Would  shake  no  apple  tree. 
Just  let  my  apples  ripen  well, 

And  then  fall  down  for  me. 

I'd  take  no  chances  with  the  girls, 

I  never  would  be  rash. 
But  I  would  go  and  go  and  go, 

And  eat  her  father's  hash. 

If  all  her  folks  would  treat  me  well. 

Would  have  for  me  a  grin. 
There  would  not  be  a  chance  at  all, 

I  surely  would  come  in. 

But  I  would  keep  my  secret  close. 

Not  of  my  prospect  tell ; 
But  I  would  hang  around  and  watch. 

Let  apples  ripen  well. 

Then  I  would  play  the  timid  lad, 
Would  lack  a  manly  speech. 

And  then  my  girl  would  pity  me, 
A  helping  hand  would  reach. 

Some  folks  are  looking  for  new  ways. 

Are  down  upon  the  past, 
But  I  do  love  the  good  old  way. 

Would  have  it  always  last. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  53 


I  can't  forget  my  childish  days, 

Of  boyhood's  happy  glee; 
I  can't  forget  the  girl  I  loved, 

The  girl  that  roamed   with  me. 

Each  man  alive  can  tell  this  tale. 
For  it  is  nothing  new ; 
— ^  If  it  don't  come  at  sweet  sixteen, 

At  twenty  always  due. 

Some  charmer  comes,  of  maiden  form. 
And  throws  him  in  a  trance; 

And  he  can't  dodge  her  wily  charms. 
To  music  he  must  dance. 

But  he  can  play  the  fool,  you  know, 

As  you  and  I  have  done; 
And  tell  the  tale  of  sixty  years. 

Just  how  this  spell  begun. 

My  heart  was  charmed — had  quicker  beat ; 

Was  this  the  way  with  you? 
I  could  not  look  a  steadfast  look. 

Say,  friend,  is  this  not  true? 

I  had  a  kind  of  restless  air. 

In  no  retreat  content. 
Unless  the  girl  was  at  my  side; 

My  friend,  were  you  thus  bent? 

Now  years  have  fled  and  things  have  changed, 

A  change  upon  our  brow; 
But  you  can  tell  the  tale  as  well. 

You  know  as  well  just  how. 

Hunter,  Texas. 


54  A  Stockman's  Poems. 

gath  ©n:e  h  Fitness  f0r  S0tnBthtng* 


My  cares  come  up,  have  strong  demand 

Upon  my  precious  time; 
Must  look  for  food,  and  raiment,  too, 

Don't  have  much  time  to  rhyme. 

If  I  had  pastures  wide  and  large, 
And  herds  on  them  to  roam, 

I  might  sit  down  in  easy  chair, 
Why  not  I  live  at  home? 

If  I  owned  lands,  and  had  men  hired 

To  simply  count  exchange, 
I  might,  then,  drive  a  coach  and  four. 

Might  drive  on  any  range. 

If  I  had  vessels  on  the  sea 

To  sail  in  every  breeze, 
I  could  put  on  the  best  of  clothes — 

No  use  for  me  to  freeze. 

If  I  could  talk  like  Billy  Bryan, 
What  crowds  on  earth  could  draw ; 

I  could,  put  on  a  stovepipe  hat, 
Not  have  a  hungry  maw. 

If  I  had  some  of  Grover's  pile 
Would  never  sup  red  rye; 

Why  not  I  drink  the  very  best, 
And  have  old  hot  mince  pie? 

Now,  I  can't  have  all  these  good  things 
Like  all  these  Upper  Tens, 

But  I  can  think  and  tell  my  tale, 
And  this  makes  some  amends. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.    ■  ■  55 


I  tell  my  tale  of  men  thus  blessed,, 

Have  they  no  cloudy  skies? 
O,  tell  me,  friends,  of  some  great  man 

Who  has  entire  supplies. 

Who  has  a  joyous  heart  each  hour, 

Who  is   devoid  of  care. 
Who  has  no  pain  to  check  his  joy. 

Who  lives  without  a  fear. 

I'd  like  to  talk  to  such  a  man. 

Would  rub  against  his  wall. 
Electrify  my  own  dear  self. 

Would  try  to  have  his  call. 

Then  I  would  be  another  man. 

Could  play  another  part, 
Be  better  fixed  with  wholesome  food. 

Could  have  a  joyous  heart. 

But  we  must  work  in  our  own  groove. 

Just  play  in  life  our  part; 
Some  must  cut  wood,  and  water  draw. 

Some  act  a  chieftain's  part. 

Contentment  is  the  gift  we  need, 

Be  glad  that  we  were  born. 
Not  crave  the  grapes  that  hang  too  high, 

Let  them  our  homes  adorn. 

This  world  of  ours,  a  compact  whole. 

Each  suited  to  his  art; 
If  we  would  do  what  we  should  do. 

Play  well  our  own  dear  part. 


56  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


No  king  can  play  the  part  of  clown, 

No  clown  can  be  a  king; 
No  man  ordained  to  be  a  man 

Can  be  a  worthless  thing. 

No  imbecile  guide  ship  of  state, 

No  beggar  hold  domain ; 
But  each  one  has  a  work  to  do, 

And  each  one  has  a  claim. 

Some  claims  are  light,  have  air  to  breathe 

And  water  which  is  free ; 
But  food  and  raiment  can't  prepare, 

But  eat  and  wear  with  glee. 

Some  have  no  pantry  and  no  safe. 

No  house  to  live  within. 
But  have  an  art  to  graze  all  'round. 

They  play  on  other's  strings. 

Some  have  a  mouth  that's  set  to  talk, 
Their  mouth  is  their  resource, 

And  we  all  fools,  we  go  to  hear. 
We  know  they  lie,  of  course. 

But  what  of  this,  we  pass  the  time. 
We  hear  them  spin  their  yarn. 

We  have  a  laugh,  enjoy  the  fun. 
We  hear  them  blow  their  horn. 

Some  men  do  rhyme  the  strangest  verse — 

Now,  do  they  have  a  call? 
Ye  wisest  men  of  learned  lore, 

Please  answer  once  for  all. 


Hunter,  Texas. 


A  Stockman's  Poems.  57 

B£-(S0nK  ^ags  in  Tbxes. 


While   calmness   reigns   around   supreme 

I  take  my  pen  in  hand 
To  write  a  verse  of  bygone  days 

Of  this,  our  Texas  land. 

Of  vulgar  boots  up  to  the  knees, 
And  spurs  strapped  to  the  heel, 

A  hickory  shirt,  and  pants  hung  on. 
Would  hold  a  sack  of  meal. 

A  broad-brimmed  hat,  a  pipe  in  mouth, 

A  puff  as  we  would  go, 
A  common  thing  in  Texas  here. 

Abroad,  a  wondrous  show. 

But  this  not  all,  my  dearest  friends, 

A  horse  to  suit  the  man, 
A  mustang  here,   with   foulest  traits. 

So  hard  to  make  him  stand. 

But  place  a  blind  right  o'er  his  eyes, 

And  fix  the  saddle  firm, 
And  have  the  bridle  hang  all  right 

For  old  Statesman  to  learn. 

Now,  who  e'er  would,  with  chance  so  fair, 

Refuse  to  ride  a  horse? 
A  chance  like  this,  passed  by  on  earth, 

May  prove  forever  lost. 

A  talk  like  this,  it  will  convince. 

We  hold  a  solemn  face; 
But  don't  you  look  too  close,  my  friend. 

You  might  some  mischief  trace. 


58  A  Stockman^ s  Poems. 


All  orders  do  initiate, 

And  we  must  do  the  same, 
For  when  a  man  gets  on  good  pitch, 

He  learns  one  Texas  game. 

Now  this  ain't  all,  my  dearest  friend, 

About  the  Texas  Horse; 
When  least  expecting  low-life  work, 

He  tries  to  throw  you  off. 

When  hard  at  work  for  days  and  days, 

As  gentle  as  a  lamb. 
But  feed  this  horse  awhile  on  oats. 

He  has  another  plan. 

Just  sit  well  back  and  hold  the  bits, 

You  never  fall  behind, 
But  hold  your  grip,  don't  fall  on  neck — 

You  might  slip  off  the  blind. 

There  is  romance  in  stirrup  life. 

Just  say  whate'er  you  may; 
A  romping  gang,  lads  all  well  met, 

For  fun,  or  dance,  or  fray. 

The  old  boys'  heads  have  all  turned  gray. 

They  laid  out  in  the  frost. 
Have  wrinkles,  too,  from  old-time  laughs. 

Would  laugh,  whate'er  the  cost. 

We  can't  forget,  our  old-time  friends, 

While  sun  upon  us  shines. 
We  had  some  joys  in  Texas  then. 

Above  the   mighty   dime. 


Hunter,  Texas. 


A  Stockman^s  Poems.  59 

tOrtttcn  Jcfter  Uisiting  th^  ^Uma. 


I  stood  amid  historic  walls 

Of  ancient  build  and  form, 
The  wheel  of  time  had  done  its  wrok, 

But  all  these  walls  were  firm. 

My  mind  ran  back  to  early  days, 

The  days  of  early  men; 
I  thought  of  war  amid  these  walls, 

The  fall  of  ancient  men. 

I  hear  their  cheers,  stand  to  your  post; 

I  hear  the  musket  ring, 
I  see  men  fall  on  every  post. 

Death  has  no  bitter  sting. 

A  smile  of  joy  upon  their  cheek, 

Seem  reconciled  to  death; 
Would  rather  fight  and  die  like  men 

Than  craven  cowards  left. 

We  sing  their  songs  of  valor  now, 
We  praise  their  deeds  of  earth. 

We  praise  the  cause  for  which  they  died, 
This  cause  gave  freedom  birth. 

Then  let  these  walls  stand  through  all  time 

A  witness  of  the  scene. 
And  let  the  poet  write  a  line 

Describing  valor's  sheen. 


Hunter,  Texas. 


60  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


State  (!rEpit0L 


We  stood  beneath  the  dome  of  state, 

A  giant  wall  of  strength; 
A  thought  ran  out,  o'er  Texas  land. 

Its  massive  width  and  length. 

Its  pasture  lands,  with  lowing  herds, 

Its  fields  of  solid  grain. 
Its  cotton  lands  of  snowy  wealth, 

Its  thousands  to  maintain. 

O !  what  a  land  of  joy  and  peace, 
What  wealth  is  brought  to  view, 

But  strange  to  say,  my  honest  friends, 
Amassed  by  very  few. 

O !  could  the  people  reap  this  wealth. 

Not  build  the  millionaire; 
O !  what  a  happy  land  we'd  have, 

No  farmer  need  despair. 

But  while  the  serf  is  forced  to  dig, 
And  wealth  have  palace  car; 

The  wicked  here  have  evil  rule. 
They  do  create  this  jar. 

But  heaven  will  smile  at  last,  my  friends 

God  sits  upon  His  throne. 
And  He  will  change  the  powers  that  be. 

And  build  a  better  dome. 


Hunter,  Texas. 


A  8tockman\s  Poems.  61 


The  man  no  more  upon  life's  stage, 

No  more  the  friendly  face; 
But  acts  he  did,  we  can't  forget, 

We  all  his  works  can  trace. 

The  poor  will  tell  in  days  to  come 

Of  help  from  friendly  hand; 
The  weak  can  tell  they  had  no  fear 

When  he  was  in  command. 

In  stormy  hours,  when  clouds  were  dark, 

A  tempest  in  our  land; 
We  see  him  then,  he  stems  the  flood, 

He  then  is  in  command. 

But  when  a  calm  pervades  our  coast 

And  balmy  breezes  blow, 
A  smile  again  on  friendly  face. 

Now  all  his  virtues  flow. 

O,  could  I  paint  this  picture,  friends. 

Give  every  tint  and  hue. 
Show  all  the  virtues  of  his  life, 

Say  only  what  is  due. 

A  greater  page  would  be  required, 

A  stronger  hand  to  paint; 
I  would  lay  down  my  brush  at  once, 

I  would  grow  weak  and  faint. 

But  I  must  say,  what  all  will  say, 

No  better  friend  we  know; 
No  other  man  to  fill  his  place. 

No  heart  a  better  flow. 


Hunter.  Texas,  February  1, 1898. 


62  A  Stockman's  Poems. 


Now,  Hunter  is  a  place  of  cheer, 

No  local  option  here; 
For  friend  with  friend  can  take  a  smile, 

And  talk  of  things  so  dear. 

We  have  a  room  of  joy  and  peace, 
A  place  no  troubles  come; 

Where  we  can  spend  a  part  of  life 
Beneath  that  happy  dome. 

Where  we  can  smile,  and  smile  again. 
Each  smile  will  give  relief, 

And  every  smile  we  have  in  town 
Will  banish  human  grief. 

And  here  we  drink  of  Nectar's  cup. 

Sweet  visions  follow  on, 
And  when  we  all  are  full  of  joy 

We  can  not  feel  forlorn. 

We  then  can  weep  with  those  who  weep. 

Can  share  a  fellow's  woes. 
Can  tip  our  glass,  say  friend  to  friend, 

Here  all  our  trouble  goes. 

And  the  distressed  of  every  race, 
,  From  distance  far  and  wide, 

Come  here  to  spend  an  hour  or  two. 
And  from  their  troubles  hide. 

And  when  they  leave  have  voices  tuned, 

All  pitched  a  little  high, 
This  pitch  may  come  from  lager  beer, 

Or  come  from  mellow  rye. 

May  28, 1898. 


Gaylamount 

Pamphlet 

Binder 

Gaylord  Bros.,  Inc. 

Stockton,  Calif. 
M.Reo.U.S.Pat.Off. ; 


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